


If You Court This Disaster

by indevan



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Disassociation, F/F, F/M, Light BDSM, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Threesome - M/M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-16 04:30:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3474491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indevan/pseuds/indevan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Life and Times of Bellamy Lavellan: rift mage, Inquisitor and elven disaster</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ankle Rests

He wants to take Bull out to the roof.  Right outside Sera’s window.  She lets them have use of it.  She clicked her tongue and tried to wiggle her eyebrows but only succeeded in bunching and unbunching her forehead.

Bull puts his knees on the window seat and shakes his horned head.

“No way is that roof holding me.”

Bellamy stands up from where he’s sitting and puts his hands on his hips.

“Sure it can.” He doesn’t budge and he sighs. “Come on--I have to show you something.”

“Look, that roof can hold your willowy little elf body but no way can it hold me.”

He sighs, rolls his eyes, relents.  Holds his hand out for Bull to help him back into the room.

“I’ll show you on the battlements.”

His hand in Bull’s is so small, it encloses his completely.  He takes him out through the tavern and up.  Through Cullen’s office.  He wonders about the placement sometimes.  It’s a thoroughfare, agents coming through all day.  He wonders if it vexes Cullen, having all those people interrupt his work.  The opening doors ruffling his paperwork.  Or maybe he likes it.  People come in and he perks his head up like a puppy, hoping someone’s come to talk to him.  Bellamy doesn’t know what to think about him.  He was a Templar.  He remembers an encounter with them when he was a little waifish thing on the streets.  Before his magic but he had nicked some bread from a food stall.  The guard hadn’t been in sight so the shopkeeper asked the Templars.  He had run around the alleyways while they called after him, “we just want to take you to the chantry!”

Cullen isn’t in his office and he’s glad.  Whenever he comes in, he wants to talk.  Like he wants to make up for the years he spent hating mages by being extremely nice to him.  He tries too hard, Bellamy thinks.  He laughs too hard at jokes he makes even if they’re jokes a human wouldn’t get.

“What does the commander do when he leaves this office?” Bull asks.

Bellamy shrugs.  Cullen is so resoundingly ordinary that he can’t picture him doing anything in his free time.  They walk through and up on the battlements.

“Okay, look!”

He gestures grandly over the grounds of Skyhold.  Bull looks out, blinks his eye.

“Alright?”

“No, no--look.” He points to a gaggle of Leliana’s agents. “They’re like daytime constellations.  Moving around each other but in the same place.  Going the same way.”

He cups his hands and frames his eyes with them.  Bull frowns.

“You are a weird-ass elf.”

“It helps me to look at them.” He turns and leans down on the stone edge of the battlement. “When my head is buzzing, I come here and look at everyone moving.  It’s calming.  I wanted to show you.”

Bull hunches down next to him, folds his arms and gets closer.

“I guess it’s interesting...but I can think of more interesting things.”

His hand sneaks out and he can feel the fingertips of his middle and forefinger brush his back.

“That’s not even a good line,” he says, smirking.

Bellamy turns and presses himself against the rough stone.  Bulls hands go to his waist and pull him close.  He doesn’t mind that Bull doesn’t get his secret place.  It’s enough to show him and for him not to laugh it off.  Now they can move onto better, bigger things.

“Did you know what I thought when I first saw your horns?” he asks.

“A mighty dragon?  A fierce beast charging at his enemies?” he offers.  Cocks a brow and smirks.

Bellamy shakes his head.  He wraps his arms around his neck and pulls himself up so his mouth is close to his.  He leans forward until his lips brush his ear.

“Ankle rests,” he whispers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so starts a series of small fics about my inquisitor. they'll mostly be along the same timeline but there probably will be (clearly marked) au's thrown in because why not?


	2. Adamant

At Haven it was bad but nothing compared to this.  There it was cold, harsh.  Wet and white.  Fires burning but dampened, muffled by the snow.  Here it was different.  The desert wasn't like home, wasn't like Starkhaven, but it was closer to it than Haven.  The dry weather of summer crackling into fire.  Burning and screaming, crying.  His mother calling his name--the one that meant nothing now--telling him to run, to go.

"Inquisitor!" Cullen's voice pounded from a far away place. "We'll hold them off as long as we can."

He blinked, smiled slowly.  Said something that meant nothing and forced out a laugh.  He wasn't there, really.  He was five years old and being pushed out the window of their apartment.  It was on the first floor but it felt so much farther as he landed in a heap of limbs on the packed dirt.  Where was his father?  Mother was screaming, he could hear her voice as she cursed at the nobles.  The words were forgotten.  He ran and ran, smoke scorching his throat, burning his eyes.

He slapped his hands over his ears and shook his head.  Dimly, he felt his knees hit dirt and he quaked on the ground.  There were demons, Wardens, Erimond...he had his duty.

"Boss?"

He could feel Bull behind him, nearby but not touching him.  Good.  He didn't want to be touched.

"Is he alright?" Cultured voice--Dorian.

"Bruiser?" A nickname.  Had to be Varric.  He called him that because "for a mage, you fight like a warrior."

The voices faded, blurred, disappeared.  He was nowhere.  He was in an alleyway, away from the Alienage, the burning, the death.  He had his hands over his ears as he sang a song mother used to sing when he was ill.  Her putting him on her feet so he could help her make her famous croquettes.  In his ragged shift, hair in tangles, shaking and crying and wishing that it wasn't real.

He took a deep breath and forced himself up.  Moved his hands down.  He wasn't in rags but armor made with dragon skin and velvet.  He shook and shuddered but he had to remind himself he wasn't that child anymore.  He just had to grit his teeth and later he could collapse under it.  He had to force it because people depended on him, the world depended on him.

"I..." He hated how his voice still shook. "Let's go."

 


	3. Pillow Talk

“Starkhaven.”

Bellamy lazily opens his eyes and turns to roll up against Bull.

“Hmm?”

“That’s where you’re from.”

Bull’s voice rumbles deep in his chest and Bell presses his ear against it.  He likes that vibration against his head.

“Yeah.  Accent, yeah?”

He can feel Bull’s eye on him, reading him.  He’s good at it.  When Bellamy met him, he didn’t take the whole “Ben-Hasserath” thing to heart.  Something he says rings in his head.

“You said ‘from,’” he says. “You know that I wasn’t born into my Clan.’”

“Is it a secret?”

Bellamy places light kisses on his chest and shakes his head.

“No.  That’s why I chose the name Bellamy.  It’s a city elf name--not a Dalish one.”

“It’s a nice name.”

Bull takes his wrists in his hands and lifts Bellamy’s arms above his head.  He pulls himself up on top of him, knees braced on either side.

“Bellamy,” he says, drawing the syllables in his name out.

It goes no further than that; he’s worn out from earlier.  He’s been with Qunari before--Tal-Vashoth who came around on jobs and happened to bump into their Clan--but it was different with Bull.  Their sex games were more active than him just lying there and telling someone that their prick would only go in his arse or his mouth.  Even with Bull he had kept that habit.  Stood in front of him with his fists on his hips and said, “Tongues and fingers up front are fine.”  Bull didn’t question it like the others.  Just nodded and said that it was good to know in advance.  He loves him for it, really.  He had only rarely hooked up with his fellow Clan-mates--those who understood--and so he often had to repeat himself.  With Bull, it was once and done.  He’s respectful of his boundaries.  It’s good.  Better than explaining why since that always made things worse for him.

They stay like that, though, Bull above him, holding his hands gently.  Bellamy grinning up at him.

“The nobles don’t know what to do,” he says, “a ‘Dalish savage’ and a knife-ear from the city.  They clutch their pearls so tightly, it leaves indents.”

Bull laughs and he loves the way he does.  His whole body shakes, really gets into it.  He likes that about people.  How much they laugh.  How much of their body gets in on the action.

“Okay, get off me.  It’s late and I’m tired.”

Bull gets down and they lie next to each other, companiably.  It’s rare, he thinks.  Actually spending the night together.  Nice but rare.  He savors it.  Curls up into his arms.  Today had been long.  Paperwork and trekking through swamps and forests.  He had to pull Cole out of the jaws of a bear at one point.  He came back and had to deal with delegates and ambassadors that someone bypassed Josephine and got right to him.  Then Bull came to his room and wore him out even more.  He yawns and pulls the duvet over them both.  Draped over Bull’s shoulder, it rises over Bellamy’s head like a tent.  Surprisingly, he finds himself not minding.

“Don’t gouge my headboard,” he tells him sleepily.

“Love you, too, kadan.”

 


	4. Kornelis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic features some of my other Lavellans because I'm predictable garbage who's made nothing but elves.

They camp close to a city and the hunters are restless.  At least those who are his age.

“What’s the harm?” Finlay asks.  His yellow eyes are almost glowing with the prospect of being so close to a tavern.  Finlay is technically the Clan’s First since he got there first but Bellamy is given more responsibilities.

“The harm is that it’s a city.” Kestral lowers her head, twirls some hair around her finger.

Bellamy looks up and smiles crookedly. “I’m from a city.”

“And the humans burned it!” she shouts and then clamps her mouth shut.  No one really talks about the purge.

“It’ll be fine.”

The tavern is in the Alienage and there are only a few whispers, a few stares and pointed fingers at their vallaslin.  Bellamy breathes in familiar smells that evoke a bittersweet nostalgia.  He sighs almost happily.  He never realized how much he misses the smells of the city.  He loses the others quickly in the mass of people.  There are elves packed everywhere and some humans--people with fetishes, mostly.  Bellamy sizes them up to see if any are worth taking to bed.  He doesn’t go after ear-chasers usually but he’s bored.  None look appealing.  He decides to find the others.

Kestral is sitting on a stool and a woman is talking to her.  Her eyes are wide and the woman touches her hair, commenting on the orange color.  Ariel watches the band play, a hungry look on his face.

“I’m better than them,” he says.

“Go up there.”

“No!”

Bellamy shakes his head and moves deeper into the crowd.  Finlay is poured out across two chairs.  Two girls are crouched by him, stroking his hair while he drinks out of a large bottle.  One of them traces the vallaslin on his face.

“Fin,” he says, “you fit right in.”

He smiles lazily and tips the bottle.  Sometimes Fin worries him.  He drinks so much and he never knows when to stop.  He seems fine for now and so he leaves him.  He goes back to the bar itself and stops.  It’s become a rarity that he finds himself surprised.  But the Qunari standing at the bar surprises him.  He looks out of place, almost scared at being there.  Bell comes up to him and smiles easily.

“Mercenary?” he asks.  He’s seen Qunari, the ones they call Tal-Vashoth.

The Qunari shakes his head.  He looks surprised that someone’s talking to him.

“I live nearby,” he says.  Nice voice.

“I didn’t know Qunari settled this far south,” he says.

“I didn’t know Dalish came into cities.”

Bellamy smiles.  He likes the little kick up in his voice.  The attitude.

“We wanted to party.  Dalish aren’t just about frolicking naked in the moonlight, you know.”

He laughs.

“True.” He looks at him and, by the Creators, his eyes were purple. “I live outside the city.  With elves.  I mean, I was raised by elves.”

“So was I.”

Another laugh.  Good laugh.  Bellamy feels a surge of heat between his legs.

“I’m Bellamy.”

“Kornelis.”

He stares at him for a long moment and then starts laughing.

“Your name means ‘horn.’”

“I know.” He smiles one of those smiles that lets them know they’re laughing at themselves.

Bellamy looks at him and smiles flirtatiously.

“So…”

He opens his mouth to say more but a hand comes down on his shoulder.  He turns and it’s Ariel, his green eyes wide and scared.

“We have to go.”

Bellamy sighs and gestured to Kornelis.

“I’m trying to…”

“It’s Fin.”

He sighs because of course it is.  He smiles at Kornelis.

“I have to go.  Maybe I’ll see you later?”

“I doubt it but alright.”

Bellamy wiggles his fingers in good-bye and Kornelis waves one hand awkwardly.  He leaves with Ariel who takes him out back where Finlay is.  He’s on all fours and can’t seem to get up.

“He’s not vomiting,” Bellamy remarks.

“No, that somehow scares me more.  We have to get him back to camp.”

Kestral stands over him, wringing her hands and shaking.  Bellamy thinks of the night he could have possibly spent with Kornelis and sighs.  He bends down and lifts Finlay up into a standing position.

“You owe me.”

The only response he gets is alcohol fumes belched in his face.

 


	5. Riders on the Storm

He can’t help but watch him.  The little wiggle of his hips.  The rise of his cheekbones and the arch of his brows.  The way his hair is chopped so the tips just fall into his honey-brown eyes.  Dorian’s been watching him.  In battle, he’s terrifying.  His eyes crackle with electricity and he screams almost primally at his enemies as he rains down fire and lightning.  He says he began studying rift magic to understand it but Dorian suspects that he likes pelting people with stone more than anything else.

He can’t help but be attracted.  There is, of course, a snag.  A huge, horned snag.  Bellamy is firmly with Bull.  He sees them, kissing behind the Herald’s Rest as if it’s someplace private.  Bellamy up on the absolute tips of his toes while Bull wraps those big, beefy arms around him.  The more troubling thing is that Dorian can’t figure out which one of them he’s more jealous of.  He and Bull had had a fling.  It was potent but it was a fling.  Shortly after he sees Bull and Bellamy flirting after a battle--both soaked with gore but grinning at one another like they’re sweethearts who met at a cotillion.

Of course they would find each other.  Dorian denied his relationship with Bull and never made a move towards Bellamy.  He has no claim on either of them and so is reduced to being outside looking in.

He thinks about this going down to the baths one night.  Skyhold has no private baths and so he has to bathe with...so many others.  He tries to go late at night when people will be in bed.  The last thing he wants is to hear Seggrit’s complaints again while he washes his hair.  Tonight he’s come late--close to midnight--for an opportunity to wash the day off.  He hears minor splashing and squares his shoulders, preparing to see Seggrit.  Sometimes it’s at least a nice view like the time he bathed with Michel and Fairbanks.  They were very nice to look at but things got awkward when they began kissing and Dorian stood by, holding his sponge and cloth and sighing.  Outside looking in again.

Inside the baths was none of the above, but Bellamy.  He stands in the middle, pouring water from a cup down on his head.  Dorian stops, stares.  He’s transfixed.  He shouldn’t stare and he hasn’t even made his presence known.  It feels almost voyeuristic, really.

“Oh,” he says, loud enough to be heard. “I’m so sorry--”

Bellamy looks up and jerks his body in the water.  He puts his hands over his chest and frowns.

“Dorian, what are you doing here?”

He holds up his cloth by way of explanation.

“I like to come here late to bathe,” he explains. “It’s empty.  Usually.”

Bellamy stares at him for a moment and lowers his hands but only a little.

“Oh.  I thought I was the only one who...well, no matter.  I’m about done.”

He gets out of the balmy water (kept magically clean in a way that fizzes on your skin) and takes a larger cloth to wrap around his body.

“I know why I do but why do you bathe so late?” Bellamy cocks his head to the side and the short, chopped bits of his black hair drip water down onto the stone floor.

“I kept getting stuck being in here with Seggrit,” he says and sighs. “That man does nothing but complain.  It was honestly drying out my skin just listening to him.”

Bellamy cracks a smile and begins walking past him.

“Have fun,” he says and gives a casual finger wiggle as he exits.

Dorian watches him go and maybe Bellamy is aware that his eyes are on his backside because he wiggles it a little beneath his drying cloth as he leaves.  Dorian isn’t quite sure what to make of that.

\--

“Are you sure, kadan?”

Bellamy leans down over Bull and drops his arms around his neck.  He places his chin on the top of his head, in the dip where his horns first grow.

“If you are.  I know you said the bedroom was just for us…”

“But you want to taste some fine, Tevinter wine?” Bull laughs loudly and says, “He’s an excellent  _vint_ age.”

He grins and slides his body languidly down Bull’s back.

“A little.” He assess the pun and then shakes his head. “And stop.”

Bull beckons with his hand and Bellamy slides down into his lap.

“Do you think he wants me?” he asks.

“I’ve seen him look at you, kadan.  He tries to hide it but he wants you bad.”

Bellamy smiles to himself.  He’s always forward with his desires but there is always that niggling fear that someone will spurn him or worse.

“How was he?” he asks.

Bull taps his chin for a moment, thinking.

“Reserved.  Afraid of letting it out.” He strokes his hand down Bellamy’s side as he speaks. “We were both pretty tipsy but even so.  He was scared.  So I held back, too.”

“Scared?”

Bellamy stretches.  He’s fairly tired and the late night bath has only exacerbated this.

“Can’t think of another word for it.  Dorian’s been through more than he says, more than he acts.”

Bellamy nods and considers this.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

\--

Dorian stares at the inked words on the page until they blur.  He’s been on this page for some time, staring and not reading.  A delicate hand comes down on the page and brings the book down.  He looks up, knowing who it will be.  Bellamy stands over him, smiling mischievously.  Dorian can’t help but stare at the planes of his face.  His short, messy hair he purportedly cuts himself.  His brown, almond-shaped eyes.  The delicate curve of his cheekbones and the slight cleft to his chin.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Inquisitor?” He keeps his voice smooth.  No need to let him see him sweat, after all.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

It isn’t the question Dorian expects and he feels the book tumble out of his hands.

“What?” he hears his voice kick up that extra pitch and so he clears his throat--tries again. “What?”

“I believe I was quite clear.  Can I kiss you?”

Dorian feels like he’s in one of Varric’s novels--that drivel Cassandra made him read, honestly--or one of his dreams.  He fights the urge to pinch himself to assure that this is not the Fade and this is Bellamy, not a desire demon.

“I thought you were taken.”

“I am...but he’s fine with it.  He’s fine with you, too.” He looks at him through his lashes and smiles slowly, easily. “We both are.”

Yes, this is one of Varric’s novels.  He wonders if he kisses Bell that the scene will focus on a far burning fire or on Leliana’s birds roosting above.

“Oh…” This is all he manages to say.

He shifts back in his chair and looks Bellamy over.  His hips, his legs, his collarbone.  He has on a tight linen shirt and when he stretches, Dorian can see the spaces between his ribs.  He imagines putting his fingers there as he kisses him.  His mouth is dry.  He wants it.  Oh Maker, he wants it.

“Alright,” he says finally. “Kiss me.”

Bellamy puts one hand on the arm of his chair and leans in.  His lips touch Dorian’s and he kisses him.  It’s almost chaste: close-mouthed, light.  He pulls away and Dorian falls forward instinctively, following him.

“How was that?”

Dorian opens his eyes--not even realizing he had closed them--and stares at him.  Bellamy has a hand on his hip and a smile on his face.

“I would say that you’re a good kisser.” He tries to save face.  Tries to ignore how he fell forward just that little bit.

“And what else?” His voice is a seductive purr and how different that sounds from his screams in battle.

“And…” Dorian stares at him for a moment and says, “I want to kiss you again.”

“So do it.”

Bellamy pushes his face forward and closes his eyes.  Dorian leans in and kisses him.  Bellamy’s hands come up to hold him and then slide down.  Down the sides of his neck, over his shoulders.  He traces down his arms and laces his nimble fingers in Dorian’s.

“Come to my quarters?” he asks, breaking away.

Dorian nods without thinking.  Yes, he wants this.  Even with Bull there--especially.  Bellamy is physically smaller, slighter, but he exudes an energy of someone so much larger.  He turns and walks backwards down the steps and Dorian fights the urge to put his arms around him protectively.

“Nothing can hurt me here,” he says.

“You go on thinking that while Vivienne clucks her tongue and mends you up.”

At least he hasn’t lost his tongue.  It’s a small relief.

In Bellamy’s quarters, Bull is already there.  He sits in a chair, his hands spread on his knees.  Bellamy lets go of Dorian and goes to him.

“Do you wanna watch first?” he asks.  Dorian can hear a light Starkhaven brogue on the edge of his words.  That surprises him.

Bull strokes a finger under his chin.

“Whatever you want, kadan.” His voice is that low rumble.  The memory of it sends a pulse southward and Dorian realizes that he’s almost painfully hard.

Bellamy turns and smiles again.  He walks to his bed and stands by it.  Pats the blanket.  Dorian can turn back now and go back to his nook.  He knows, somehow, that neither Bellamy or Bull would force him to stay.  He steps forward.

Bellamy takes his hands and lays him down.  Dorian cranes his neck and watches him disrobe.  That tight linen shirt goes over his head, leaving a white shirt with straps that only goes to his ribcage.  Bellamy strokes his fingers down his own sides before going to the waistband of his trousers.  He takes his smalls with him and he stands in front of him, naked.  His body curves inward slightly as if on instinct.  Dorian reaches a hand for him and Bellamy smiles that lazy, dangerou smile.

They kiss again on the bed, Bellamy lying on top of him.  He straddles Dorian’s hips and his hands go down his chest.

“This outfit’s so complicated.” His voice sounds full in his throat. “Take it off for me?”

“I can’t with you on me.”

Bellamy crawls off of him and goes to sit on Bull’s lap.  Dorian feels their eyes on him as he strips but it isn’t uninvited.  When he’s done, Bellamy gets up and comes towards him.

“So…” Bellamy reaches down to stroke him. “I do have some rules.”

Dorian nods, swallows.  Of course.  He explains them and it makes sense.  It is comfortable.  After it’s said, the heady feeling returns and they’re on the bed.  He feels every inch of Bellamy as he had dreamed.  His thighs are so thin, his arms as well.  Dorian has never been with an elf before.  He feels fine-boned and delicate in his arms and he wonders how Bull can be with him without breaking him.

“I’m not fragile,” he whispers. “Come with me.  I’ll show you.”

He feels weight next to them and know that Bull’s on the bed with them now.  He strokes a hand down Bellamy’s back, his fingers fitting into the dips along his spine.

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” he asks and Dorian feels his eye on him.

He can only nod.  Bellamy grins and ducks his head to nuzzle his shoulder.

“Do you want this?” he asks, mouth against his neck. “Both of us?”

Dorian closes his eyes and nods again.

It isn’t as awkward when they awaken as he would think.  The bed is cramped with the three of them but comfortably so.

“Was it?” Bellamy asks.  The sentence ends abruptly, the question vague and hanging.

“Yes.” Dorian turns to put his face on his shoulder.

“Would you like to do it again?”

“Now?”

Bull’s laugh rumbles against his back.

“Not now.  But another time.”

Dorian considers it.  Looks at Bellamy’s face as his lips curl up in a closed-mouth smile.  He leans back against Bull’s chest.

“Another time, yes.”

 


	6. Dionisio

When the elf comes to Skyhold, people think: the sun.  He’s beautiful with olive skin and blond hair in floppy curls.  He has an enormous sword strapped to his back and a shirt open to reveal his sculpted chest.  His eyes are the color of wine and his lips are full, sensual.  Everyone stares as he comes in but not quite as if they can’t look directly at him.

All but Bellamy.

He knows him.  He is of his Clan but he does not know why he’s here.  He stops in the middle of the courtyard, lifts his chin to acknowledge the stares at him and smirks.  He is more than of his Clan.  He is a brother to many of them--he had many custodians once his mother ran off to try and find his father who had run off--and he is Finlay’s drinking partner.  More importantly he is his former lover.

“Dionisio,” he says and tries to hide his reproach.

“Bellamy.” His voice is like wine, too.  It’s mostly all he drinks, of spirits anyway.  He hates the taste of anything else.

“Why are you here?”

He puts a hand on his shoulder and he can feel the warmth through the fabric of his shirt.  He is as painfully handsome as ever and it hurts him in the pit of his stomach.

“Not happy to see me, Bell?”

“That’s not an answer.”

He moves his hand away in a swooping gesture.

“Keeper Deshanna wants one of us here to keep you company.  Make sure these shem have your best interests at heart.  I volunteered.”

“You…”

Dionisio is smiling and he doesn’t understand.  They broke rather abruptly when they were teenagers and rarely spoke since.

“I bet there’s some good-looking people here,” he says and he’s still smirking as he walks past him.

Bellamy fights the urge to light his trousers on fire.  A hand touches the small of his back and he can tell from the shadow over him that it’s Bull.

“Who is that, kadan?”

“Dino.” Everyone their age in the Clan has nicknames.

“Dino...that’s one you haven’t told me about.”

“I know.” He can’t keep the disdain from his voice.

Ahead Dionisio is walking towards the dummies where Krem is.  He can tell from his posture that he’s complimenting his form.  It angers him that he knows that.

“I see.” And of course Bull knows because he’s Bull. “No invites like for Dorian, hmm?”

Bellamy watches the sun catch Dionisio’s curls.  Watches the tilt of his hips and the curve of his lips even from where he stands.  He steels himself and clenches his jaw.

“No.”

 


End file.
